


It's a Bird! It's a Plane!

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Angels, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Superpowers, The Arrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-15
Updated: 2010-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:52:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has a surprising new skill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Bird! It's a Plane!

"How would you feel," Aziraphale asked, somewhere between the fifth cup of tea and the third brandy, "if I told you I could fly?"

Crowley rolled his eyes, then looked over the top of his sunglasses and rolled them again, just to make sure Aziraphale got the point. "You're an _angel_," he said. "You have enormous, gleaming, incredibly unkempt _wings_. Of _course_ you can fly. Idiot." Aziraphale was glowering at him in a very satisfying way, as if he might possibly give in to wrath, or at least a sudden fit of peevishness. He rather hoped it would be peevishness. There'd be less paperwork to fill out for that.*

"Not like _that_," Aziraphale said testily. "I can just - fly. Without wings. Rather fast, too, I have to say."

"So?" Crowley said, dithering between the teapot and the decanter. He solved the problem by pouring strong coffee from the teapot instead of the tea it had assumed it contained, and adding a generous slosh of brandy to it. "I could do that, it's just a manipulation of material reality." He toasted Aziraphale with his coffee-and-brandy to underline the point.

"It's different," Aziraphale muttered, pouring himself a cup of tea from the increasingly confused teapot. "Finish that and I'll show you." He sipped the tea, looking increasingly peevish.

"All right, all right," Crowley sighed, and swallowed the coffee while it was still nice and boiling. He idly wondered if he could persuade someone from Hell's catering service to open a coffee shop in London so that he'd finally be able to get a cup of coffee he didn't consider lukewarm. Probably not, he thought. The last catering demon he'd managed to persuade to try had ended up getting star struck and was now mostly seen on television, swearing a lot at other chefs. "Show me, then."

Aziraphale led him outside and looked surreptitiously up and down the road as if he actually had something to be secretive about. Crowley ostentatiously checked his watch. "Just 'fly' down to Wardour Street and back," he said, pointing at the corner. "I have to get back to work." Aziraphale gave him a look that suggested he might see the angel swearing on television one of these days, and leapt into the air. " . . . _what?_" Crowley said, as Aziraphale simply vanished, the air slamming into place behind him and rippling in an unpleasant way that made Crowley briefly think he needed his eyes tested. He stood there for a moment, then carefully walked to the corner, just in case Aziraphale was playing a silly trick. Nothing. He went back to wait outside the bookshop, and looked round as someone tapped his shoulder. Aziraphale stood there, looking a little more rumpled than usual. "What just happened?" Crowley said.

"I just flew the whole way round the earth," Aziraphale said. "I may possibly have slowed its rotation temporarily, so you might want to check your watch, sorry. I'm still getting used to this."

Crowley closed his mouth. "I see," he said. "And what do you envisage using this new transport-related skill for?"

"Well," Aziraphale said, and went very pink. "I rather thought I might fight crime."

Crowley paused, then nodded. "Thanks for the tea. And the coffee. And the brandy. I must be getting along."

"Oh. Well, I'll keep you posted, shall I?"

"You do that," Crowley said with a sharp grin. "Ciao!" He jumped into the Bentley and drove off, feeling a little peevish himself. _Blessed angels_, he thought, _stealing a fellow's thunder._ He'd just have to wait for another time to tell Aziraphale all the strange things that had happened since he'd been bitten by the radioactive spider.

 

*Despite Crowley's addiction to shiny new technological wonders that he was sure a person such as he seemed to be would enjoy, the infernal bureaucracy – not to mention eons of his own ingrained habit – meant that he submitted reports handwritten on parchment, a material that often had a limited lifespan in filing cabinets reaching the sort of temperatures considered a pleasant working environment in Dis, requiring new copies of his reports to be demanded, often centuries after he had forgotten what the original report had contained. Crowley was deeply, deeply grateful he had followed through on a drunken whim of the early 1970s and enrolled for Creative Writing in the University of East Anglia.


End file.
